Nor Any Drop to Drink
by Phosphorescent
Summary: The first time he loses a partner, it's to a sudden gunshot. The second time he loses one, it's to the sea.
1. Drowning

_Disclaimer: NCIS doesn't belong to me. _

_A/N: Here's my contribution to the undoubtedly large number of fics dealing with the events that occurred at the end of Season 6/Beginning of Season 7._

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**Part I: Drowning**

The first time he loses a partner, it's to a sudden gunshot. The second time he loses one, it's to the sea. But the words – "no survivors" – come hard and sharp, like a bullet lodged between his ribs, like a foot in the belly, so that he gasps and sputters for air like a drowning man.

The water of despair fills his lungs. Guilt and anger press down on his shoulders, his proverbial albatross.

If this were a movie, those fateful words (_"There were no survivors"_) would reverberate around the dimly lit room. Theme music would make an appearance.

This isn't a fucking movie, though. This is real, and this is permanent.

After that initial burst of pain, however, he lapses into apathy. Ziva is gone, and she's taken him with her. Only, due to some strange twist of fate, his shade still lingers on this planet.

It sounds melodramatic, but it isn't.

The world is strangely blurred, colorless. He can hear people's voices, but can't make out their words… when they speak, it is as though they are talking underwater, the volume muted and the sounds distorted.

He forces himself out of bed each morning, forces himself and the others to eat. There's no point to any of it, though; not really.

He's like one of those cheap chocolate Easter bunnies: goofy on the outside, hollow on the inside, and broken before he's even out of the packaging.

The world keeps on turning, idiots keep committing crimes, paperwork keeps building up. But it's as though the entire world is merely a painted stage set, because the real world?

It ended when Ziva did.


	2. CPR

_Disclaimer: NCIS doesn't belong to me. _

_A/N: I wasn't initially planning a follow-up to this ficlet, but then a drabble bunny attacked. [Y'know, the much smaller cousin of the plot bunny? And it's every bit as vicious as its cousin... the thing nearly took my arm off until I agreed to write it down. ;-)] Depending on how things go, there might be a third part at some point._

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**Part II: CPR**

The bag is pulled off of her head, and suddenly he can breathe again. Air comes rushing back into his lungs with a _whoosh_ so powerful that it might have knocked him over had he not been tied to the chair.

Lips cracked, sweat trickling down his face, he's more alive than he's been in weeks. And it _hurts_; the numbness surrounding his heart cracks jaggedly down the center. Pain mixes with a disbelieving euphoria as he drinks in her battered form.

She's alive.

Emaciated and bruised, yes, but wonderfully, gloriously _alive_. Her eyes may be deadened, her skin may be scarred, but she's breathing and her heart is beating.

His heart takes up that beat, calling, _A-live, A-live, A-live_.

A horrible grin stretches across his face, skin cracking in its wake. He'd half forgotten how.

_A-live, A-live, A-live._

His throat is parched, his muscles are burning, but he feels better than he has in months.

She's alive.

And suddenly, so is he.


	3. Homecoming

_A/N: Here's the final part of the fic. Many thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed! Your feedback means a lot to me. (And on an entirely unrelated note, the season finale this year was just... wow.)_

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**III. Homecoming**

The bullpen breaks into applause, and it's like a scene from one of his movies. All Tony wants to do, though, is to yell _Shut up!_. Because, yeah, maybe this mission was successful beyond anyone's wildest dreams, and Saleem is dead and Ziva is still alive, but there's no call for this… this spectacle of celebration. Ziva's alive, sure, but she's not _Ziva_ anymore. They've rescued her from Saleem's camp, but the real battle for her life (for her soul) has barely begun.

The team is all tired and dirty and aching, and they're all emotionally drained, and why haven't those idiots _stopped_ with the damn clapping?

It's too crowded and noisy in here. The presence of the other agents is like an itch under his skin that he can't quite scratch, a fly buzzing by his ear that ought to be swatted; it sets him on edge.

He can't seem to peel his eyes away from Ziva, afraid that if he looks away even for a minute, she'll vanish again. If the way Abby's hugging the Israeli is any indication, she feels the same way. Thank God for Gibbs, who stands protectively between them and the rest of NCIS, shielding them from the benevolent curiosity of the other agents. (From the people who just gave up on her, and now want to, to _congratulate_ them or something.)

Gradually, the NCIS agents drift back to their work stations, leaving the team alone.

Abby at long last relinquishes her death-grip (life-grip) on Ziva, and Ziva hesitantly reclaims her old desk.

And it feels right in a way that he can't quite put into words.

So the rest of them take their seats too, Gibbs straight-faced, McGee and Abby tightly gripping hands, as though to draw strength from one another.

Tony feels his lips quirk upwards into a small, grim smile of cautious satisfaction.

Things aren't OK yet. They may never be. But getting Ziva back is a step in the right direction.

And although she is not yet reinstated, Tony throws the stack of applications for her position in the trash.


End file.
